


A Single Drop

by sileya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sileya/pseuds/sileya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long moment, Sherlock became excruciatingly aware that he was staring, but he couldn’t drag his gaze away from a single drop of sweat slowly wending its way along the contours of John’s temple, glittering in the low light from the mobile that barely beat back the dark. He watched it slide down John’s cheekbone, then jawline, then drip over the ledge of John’s chin to swiftly follow the curve of his throat and then shatter upon the rise of his Adam’s apple. Sherlock flinched, as if the tiny droplets scattered along his own overheated skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Single Drop

 

He was so hot, it was hard to breathe. Sherlock groaned and raised a hand to bat at the duvet that had to be covering his face. Why else would it be so stuffy? He struggled to wake, vaguely annoyed that his brain wasn’t firing at high speed as per usual. _Hot._ With a harsh exhale, he opened his eyes, then closed them and tried again. Still totally dark. Rolling his head brought a shot of pain at his temple, eliciting another groan, and now his mind started to reach for any bit of the nearest past he could remember. How disgustingly ordinary. He never had trouble remembering.

But for now: Hard floor. Metal. Stifling air like that blasted duvet pressing down upon him like a sodden ton of shock blankets on his chest. He was sprawled on the floor, and moving hurt quite a bit more than he expected, especially the knot on the side of his head he now felt throbbing with his rising pulse. He slowly drew in a breath of the thick air and moved his arms, groping for purchase with fingers that felt slow to respond and clumsy.

Definitely dressed, in fact uncomfortably so, trousers and suit jacket now both certainly terribly creased, silk shirt that already fit him like a nearly too-snug glove now transmuted into cling film. No coat. He felt a pang of panic—then belatedly recalled he hadn’t worn his beloved Belstaff out into the summer evening. Summer, with its overly cheerful sunshine that really didn’t last long. A short nap, tedious, but required for optimum brain function, and no one would know. Open windows to relieve the stagnant air in the flat with the light breeze. Moderate traffic, light noise as evening fell. Violin as the stars came out. His body’s suggestion that he waste valuable thinking time to consume food. Food. Dinner. Angelo’s. Company.

_John._

“John?”

No answer. Sherlock’s chest abruptly ached under the air’s pressure, and he rubbed it with one hand as he forced himself to sit up and start feeling around. Diamond plate floor, walls similar. Industrial setting, steamy air—yes, now he remembered good-naturedly allowing John to badger him into eating because it was too warm to work up the energy to argue, the call from Lestrade. The latest clue pointed to the smugglers using a canning plant in Park Royal as a base of operations, and they were off, leaving John’s ravioli and Sherlock’s crostini on the table. Angelo would have it delivered. John would heat it tomorrow.

_John._

Sherlock slid sideways and clambered to his knees, reaching out to his left side and encountering a wall, his back bumped another, and, arm outstretched, his right hand’s fingers brushed metal as well. A small metal box—a lift? A lift would fit the facts: they had dashed around a corner to avoid bullets long enough for the newly arrived Met to get inside and subdue the smugglers. Only the corner had ended blind, and Sherlock had hit the ungiving barrier at full speed. “John?” 

No answer but the slight echo of his voice.

John had been with him, Sherlock was sure of it. They had snuck into the cannery, a disused old brick-and-metal complex with concrete pits and steam-driven machinery no longer in operation. Inside it had been several degrees hotter than the thirty degrees ambient, and walking inside had been like mucking through sludge.

“John,” Sherlock said more firmly, expecting an answer, and then his mind managed to break free of the heat-thickened treacle to instruct: _Find John. Need light. Use your mobile, you idiot._

Sherlock patted himself down, almost worried until his knuckles struck the mobile tucked away inside his jacket’s breast pocket. He pulled it out and triggered the screen, getting a sudden shock of illumination that made him cringe until his eyes adjusted.

“John—” Sherlock searched what he could see, which was precious little in the consuming darkness. A sealed metal box, a trap for rats. Sherlock sneered and shuffled forward on his knees, trying to shake the wobbly feeling in his limbs. The shape of the lift, much deeper than it was wide, indicated it was obviously meant for hand trucks of freight, not people.

A shuffle of movement.

“John!” Sherlock scrambled despite it aggravating the pounding in his head, moving toward the man who lay crumpled against the far wall, and skidded to a stop. His knees against John’s side, Sherlock started patting John down, checking for injuries, feeling for damp that might indicate blood, shining the meager light closer.

Unfortunately, everything he touched was wet. John was drenched with sweat, but Sherlock couldn’t see anything that looked like blood. “John? Are you with me?”

John groaned and turned his head. “Sherlock?” he croaked.

“Yes, yes, I’m here.” Sherlock stayed still as John shifted and propped himself against Sherlock’s knees. “Are you hurt?”

“Gahhhh,” John replied, but his movements were fairly smooth as he started to check all his limbs. “Everything seems to still be attached. What happened?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We ran, ended up in a lift, I believe. That or a metal storage room of some kind.”

“Lift,” John repeated as he sat up, and Sherlock had to lean back to avoid John’s head hitting his chin. John climbed to his feet, appearing steadier than Sherlock felt, and as Sherlock held up his mobile, John slid his hands along the walls. “Yes, here are the controls.”

Sherlock sighed in relief. “Let’s get out of here.” He hadn’t been this physically uncomfortable in some time.

“God, yes,” John said, audibly heartfelt. “I feel like I’m melting.”

Sherlock snorted. John was wearing denims and a light tee, blue cotton, brought out his eyes, definitely more breathable than Sherlock’s silk button-up and tailored kid mohair suit.

John pulled out his own mobile to shine its light on the buttons, then chose one and pressed it firmly. Nothing. He hit another button. Still nothing. He pressed the DOOR OPEN button.

More nothing.

“Hell.”

“Quite,” Sherlock agreed as frustration flared and drove him to his feet. He immediately started texting Lestrade, perhaps punching the keys a little harder than normal, only to have the message rejected as undeliverable. He shook the mobile. No reception.

“I can’t make a call. No connection,” John said, and Sherlock immediately looked to the ceiling and then at John, who nodded and moved to search the walls.

Fifteen minutes later, he and John sat on the diamond plate, lit mobiles on their knees, facing each other across the narrow width of the lift—overheated, soaked through, and annoyed. Sherlock was _so_ far beyond annoyed he wasn’t sure it was remotely measurable. They’d pried open the doors to find solid concrete, and there was no discernible break in the lift’s metal top. The lift was clearly lodged between levels, though Sherlock had no memory of it moving. His most likely supposition had the smugglers tossing their bodies farther into the lift, shutting it up, then moving and disabling it to keep them out of the way and secure while they took care of the Met, before returning to question them.

He didn’t want to think about how simple it would have been for the criminals to have simply shot him. To have shot John. Easy peasy. It nauseated Sherlock to think about it.

“Still no signal?” John asked.

Sherlock rapped the useless mobile on the metal floor and sent it violently skidding along the diamond plate to bounce off John’s thigh and careen off into the dark.

“I guess not,” John observed, shifting his mobile to his thigh after stretching out his legs. It was still active and emitting a small amount of light, just enough that they could make out each other’s face.

“This is intolerable,” Sherlock complained, the anger and helplessness clawing at his throat. He hated being bored. He hated being stuck in one place. He hated being bored _and_ stuck in one place with an intensity to rival Dante’s inferno, which he might as well have been sitting in, what with the oppressive heat weighing on him.

And his head hurt, badly. About as miserable as he could remember being in a long, long time, Sherlock pulled up one knee and braced an elbow against it so he could rest his forehead on his palm. He might even have whimpered. Quietly.

“Okay there, Sherlock?” John asked.

Apparently not quietly enough.

Good and caring John. The man with patience that outstripped Sherlock’s intellect by far, considering how he’d come back, again and again. Sherlock swallowed on old, aching regret and exhaled lingering sorrow. He had John in his life every day, and he was content. He _was_. It was only occasionally he let himself remember that for the past three years, he’d wanted more.

“My head hurts,” he mewled, feeling sorry for himself.

He watched the furrow appear between John’s brows and slumped a little as John scooted over in front of him, reaching to gently touch his forehead. “Heat is terrible for causing headaches,” John offered.

“So are contusions.”

“What? Did you hit your head?”

Sherlock couldn’t summon more than a grunt as he shifted his chin in his hand to allow John’s fingers to move over his scalp.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice softened with concern as he surveyed the damage with one hand’s fingers.

“It’s not my fault,” Sherlock stated petulantly. He wiped at the sweat beading along his brow.

“Yes, I know, that wall just jumped right out in front of you without any warning.” The humor underlining John’s response made Sherlock want to smile.

“Better than bullets,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Hmm. I suppose, yes,” John said, but he didn’t quite sound like he agreed. “Are you dizzy? Trouble focusing your eyes or your thoughts? This is the third time this year.”

Sherlock simply sniffed and leaned ever so slightly into John’s hand, seeking what small comfort he legitimately could. They touched like this, casually, comfortably, not quite intimately. But enough to assuage the craving for touch that occasionally curled and twisted in Sherlock’s gut. Sometimes he even feigned feeling worse than he truly did, just to hold a bit more of John’s caring attention. He wondered briefly if John could tell and simply humored him.

John lightly dragged his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, avoiding the lump. “You’ll need another CT scan, the way you’re going.”

Sherlock screwed up his face, and John laughed, deep and appealing.

“They’re so noisy. And holding still that long is hateful,” Sherlock said, not bothering to swallow on his truculence.

“Like you don’t lie still for hours and hours on the sofa while _thinking_ ,” John said with a tap of his mobile against Sherlock’s knee.

“But that’s thinking in the quiet, with white noise in the background. Not thinking with a pneumatic drill and a scabbler and a nail gun all in raucous concert about me.”

“I know,” John said soothingly, still stroking.

Sherlock humphed quietly, and they sat silent for a short time, Sherlock allowing himself to revel in John’s light caress, trying to ignore the blasted heat that battered at him, closing his eyes to ignore the looming dark. It was all much easier to bear with John so close.

“How long have we been here?”

Sherlock opened one eye to peer at John’s lit mobile. “Approximately forty-five minutes. Lestrade is likely searching the building for us now.”

“Think he’ll look in the lift?”

Sherlock snorted and glanced up at John. “Would you?”

John’s lips twisted. “Not a stuck one.”

“Precisely. And heat-signature technology will be utterly useless.”

“God, don’t mention the heat,” John said plaintively as he thumped back on his heels, finally pulling his hand away from Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock missed it keenly in an instant. To distract himself, he started bouncing his foot, rapping it against the metal.

John sighed. “Twitchy already?”

Sherlock saw fit not to justify that completely obvious deduction with any manner of reply.

The mobile light flickered off and on. “We can’t even play Scrabble with no connection,” John said as he frowned at his mobile screen.

“You hate Scrabble,” Sherlock murmured.

“Yes, but you don’t.”

Sherlock smiled. John would play games and pose puzzles, knowing full well he was doomed to lose in spectacular fashion, if it would entertain, appease, or delight his flatmate. Sherlock knew John cared for him and his well-being. He showed it in uncounted small ways. It was the driving force behind Sherlock’s affection for John deepening over the years, despite their periodic separations.

“I’d rather you not be bouncing off the walls, pining for your harpoon,” John said, his smile audible.

“Eh. Too hot for that much energy expenditure,” Sherlock said. “I might combust, and wouldn’t that be messy.” Finally giving up on the measure of composure he’d been stubbornly trying to maintain, he started to peel out of his suit jacket. After he grunted in vexation as the cloth stubbornly stuck to him, John set down his mobile and leaned to help. “Peel” was exactly the term to describe it. The thin summer-weight fabric clung to Sherlock like a wetsuit. Once he had it down to one arm, he turned up his nose and shook his arm to free it, and the jacket fell to the floor with a soft plop.

“Your shirt’s just as bad,” John observed, plucking at the soaked silk that might as well have been a second layer of skin.

Sherlock hummed slightly, the heat lulling him into an unusual complacency. He reached up and fumbled with the buttons, undoing a few and detaching the silk from his sweat-slick chest. Flapping the open plackets moved a bare amount of air, enough to feel some modicum of relief. When he looked up, it was to see John watching him with a slight smile.

“What?”

“No one would believe it, the classy and always put-together Sherlock Holmes, all sweaty and undone,” John said, laughing lightly.

“I’m not always put-together,” Sherlock objected, though without much strength behind it.

“True,” John agreed. “Sometimes you prance about in your bedsheet.”

Sherlock grinned and turned it into his wrist as he settled his forehead against his palm again. He imagined he could feel John’s gaze on him, tracing the edge of silk against moist skin, an unsettling image, for all that it was an exciting one. When he indulged in any sort of fantasy, it was always— _always_ —locked away in his bedroom when he was absolutely— _absolutely_ —sure John was well away from 221B. But here and now, he was too drained to keep up a façade of indifference, so he instead focused on ignoring the perceived attention. And his body’s reaction to it.

But the heat made it so bloody difficult to concentrate.

John shifted to sit cross-legged in front of him as he launched into a story about a recent corpse brought into the mortuary that Molly had called him about specially. Sherlock felt a common flush of pleasure, one related to how John continued to consult at Bart’s rather than returning to family practice. It meant more of John’s time was his and no one else’s. It also meant that when John wanted to prattle on about work, it was something remotely interesting to Sherlock and he didn’t have to force himself to appear mindful. He knew John appreciated it when Sherlock truly paid attention to what he was saying. It had been a hard lesson learned for Sherlock, one that had required a shift in behavior, but John was worth it. And _really_ , it took so very little to make John happy. Eat a few bites of dinner, be attentive for a few minutes now and then, keep body parts off the one shelf in the fridge designated for consumables, refrain from bombastic obligatto in favor of gentler sonatas when playing violin from one to six in the morning.

Sherlock knew full well how brilliantly lucky he was.

The pleasing, even cadence of John’s voice swept over him as Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest, crossed his arms over them, pillowed his head, and let his eyes fall closed. He could tell from his tone that John wasn’t truly expecting him to engage in conversation. Letting himself drift helped the pounding in his head recede to more of a thrumming, and he felt his shoulders relax as minutes passed. At one point, John laughed at something he was saying, and Sherlock opened his eyes.

After a long moment, Sherlock became excruciatingly aware that he was staring, but he couldn’t drag his gaze away from a single drop of sweat slowly wending its way along the contours of John’s temple, glittering in the low light from the mobile that barely beat back the dark in this sauna of a lift. He watched it slide down John’s cheekbone, then jawline, then drip over the ledge of John’s chin to swiftly follow the curve of his throat and then shatter upon the rise of his Adam’s apple. Sherlock flinched, as if the tiny droplets scattered along his own overheated skin.

It shouldn’t have been so fascinating, so utterly consuming. It shouldn’t have made Sherlock’s mouth water. It shouldn’t have distracted him so completely from whatever inane tale John was spinning to pass the time and hopefully stave off the boredom that he feared—rightfully so—would drive Sherlock to furious insensibility.

Distantly, Sherlock observed that licking up that drop would address how thirsty he was. He could almost taste the salt of it making his tongue tingle, like he could hear blood rushing in his ears as his world narrowed to a single pinpoint highlighting John.

Another drop broke free of John’s hairline and Sherlock peripherally noted John was still talking, seemingly unaware of Sherlock’s intense interest.

Darkness hid many sins, both infinitesimal and egregious.

Sherlock wasn’t sure which this would qualify as.

That single drop of sweat beckoned to Sherlock like a hit of cocaine, and the realization sent his head figuratively spinning. He was abruptly aching, _hurting_ for John, starving for him, straining to hold back his hands. In a herculean attempt to restrain himself, he straightened from his slump and leaned back to thump his head against the wall with a deep metallic thud. Over and over.

“—the falciform ligament… Sherlock! What are you doing?” John left his mobile on the floor and shuffled forward on his knees to jam his hand between the back of Sherlock’s head and the wall so his skull thudded against fleshy padding.

“Nothing. Doing nothing,” Sherlock muttered, digging his fingers into his thighs. How was it possible to be so on fire inside his own skin that the air in the stifling potboiler they sat in actually struck him as cool? He was losing his mind.

“For God’s sake, come away from the wall,” John insisted, pulling at his shoulder and urging him a meter out into the open.

“John, please,” Sherlock said, voice coming out strangled as John’s hands stuck and skidded over the sticky silk of Sherlock’s arm and back, every touch a sizzling contact, so much so that Sherlock was foggily surprised to not see sparks. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?” John asked, frowning. “Keep you from hurting yourself?”

“No. Yes. No—” Sherlock cut himself off. If he weren’t already burning up, he knew he’d be flushed with frustration. He didn’t stutter and grasp for words like that around anyone but John. He simply didn’t. “Don’t.” Sherlock’s throat closed up, dry as a desert compared to the sweat streaming from his skin, and he dropped his chin to pull his gaze away from John’s beloved face, far too appealing for Sherlock’s own good.

“Don’t _what_?” John repeated. Sherlock went still as stone when John shifted closer, and just as they were not even an arm’s length apart, the mobile timed out and the light blinked off, leaving darkness to fall upon them like a suffocating velvet cloak.

Sherlock felt John fumbling for the mobile, and he reached out to catch John’s arm and stop him. “No. Leave it.” John stopped moving and inhaled, and Sherlock expected another question.

But then, nothing.

Without his sight, Sherlock’s other senses sharpened painfully.

Sherlock could _smell_ him. He could smell the warm, salty aroma of a healthy and strong male free of chemicals. John didn’t favor cologne anymore, and Sherlock didn’t miss it. He could detect a soft puff of fabric softener, the sweet tinge of his own sculpting wax, and the stronger tang of metal around them, but it was all nearly overwhelmed by the scent of _John_.

The quiet roared around them, and Sherlock’s ears strained as his pulse pounded in them like a bass drum. His breathing sounded like wind in a field of thistles, rough and desiccated and scratchy. Even his swallow seemed to echo. Then he heard a slow, long inhalation that wasn’t his. They were sitting so close that he felt John’s posture relax. Yet his breath caught when John’s hand lightly landed on his leg above the knee.

Despite the darkness, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, focusing everything in him on the fingers that curled over his shoulder and the hand on his thigh and the huffs of breath that didn’t come from his lungs, anything to forget the clammy fabric that squelched silently when he shifted and the sweat trailing along the back of his neck and down between his shoulder blades.

The clamor of want in his chest combined with the sapping heat ate at his willpower, leaving crumbs. Sherlock knew it. Likely, he wasn’t in his right mind: a possible concussion exacerbated by high temperature. He felt faint, yet anchored by John’s hands.

But he was struck by the notion that this was a _chance_. He’d passed on so many chances already, so many opportunities gone as he’d cowardly chosen to keep to the status quo and preserve his friendship with John. Darkness and a head injury could excuse an awful lot of liberty taken.

Before he could change his mind, Sherlock acted.

Bracing himself with his left hand on the floor behind him, Sherlock slowly lifted his right to curl his fingers around John’s wrist and pull. But instead of releasing it once it was free of the clinging silk, Sherlock instead turned his chin and gently pressed his lips to John’s palm as John’s fingers trailed along his cheekbone.

John’s hand didn’t shake, didn’t waver; Sherlock smiled slightly against the moist skin and kissed it once, twice, and then John’s fingers shifted against his cheek in what could only be a caress. Sherlock thought his heart might beat through his chest as John’s other hand disappeared from his thigh and arrived at his shoulder, skipping up along the fabric to Sherlock’s throat and slicking along the skin smoothly until fingers wrapped at his nape and thumb slid against Sherlock’s earlobe.

John drew a breath and Sherlock stilled, a rush of fearful adrenaline shocking him, but John didn’t speak—he moved slowly but steadily through the mere half meter between them, across the diamond plate until Sherlock had to spread his legs to allow him closer, until John’s knees pressed against the insides of Sherlock’s thighs and what little self-preservation instinct Sherlock had cultivated over the years—at John’s request—evaporated.

Sherlock parted his lips and dragged his tongue along John’s flesh from the heel of his hand to the tip of his second metacarpal, the cacophony of sweat, skin, metal, and _John_ exploding on his tongue.

The soft moan that echoed between them wasn’t Sherlock’s. He was almost certain of that.

After no more than a second’s pause, drunk on the assumption of freedom, Sherlock reached out with both hands to touch John’s chest, used them as a guide to John’s throat, where Sherlock next applied his tongue in a long, languorous lick, backtracking that tortuous trail the single drop of sweat had taken from temple to Adam’s apple.

 _That_ groan was definitely not his.

Sherlock mouthed John’s name against his cheek, trying for sound that wouldn’t come as he waited for John to react, to either end—or begin—everything.

It took two heartbeats for John to exhale hard through his nose as he dipped his chin and fumbled to find Sherlock’s mouth with his.

The reality of the moment slammed into Sherlock with breath-stealing force, and as he kissed John, he could feel the urgency welling, emotions he’d forced away and swallowed down for weeks and months and years. The passion escaped, and he kissed John with everything he was, everything he had, every skin cell and eyelash, every iota of his brain cells firing and nerve endings sparking as their wet swollen lips slid and clashed, swiped and plumped together, his tongue twining and wrangling with John’s as Sherlock clutched the love of his life close.

He had to breathe. He had to have air, and finally he pulled back to gasp for it, only to suck in a deeper breath as John’s lips coasted along his neck, tongue dragging down into the hollow of the shoulder joint exposed by Sherlock’s unbuttoned shirt. “John,” he moaned, afire.

“Yes,” John said, his voice breaking on the husky syllable. The sound was clear confirmation. “Yes,” John repeated, and Sherlock fancied he heard just a bit of desperation, enough to embolden him. He reached to clasp John’s face so he could kiss him firmly, deeply, the way he’d always—was it always? It _had_ to have been always—wanted. And John was there, kissing him back, and Sherlock thought he might shake to pieces.

He dropped one hand to clutch at the neck of John’s T-shirt and pull. He needed skin, _more_ skin, confirmation this was really happening, that it wasn’t just a fevered dream. And if it was, Sherlock wanted it to go on forever, leaving the waking world to rot.

John must have understood, because with a swift movement, he yanked the T-shirt over his head. Sherlock felt the fabric skim away, leaving acres of flesh for him to touch and kiss and lick, with no reason to stop. _No reason_ —his reason was totally gone from him, leaving this lust-driven animal instinct and prickling, consuming need behind, stripping away the intellect and reserve he used to protect himself and leaving him bare.

Dimly aware of John’s fingers fumbling with the rest of his shirt’s buttons, he explored John’s chest. He didn’t need light. He knew the muscles and planes; he’d visually memorized them over and over, a new picture stored away in his Mind Palace every time. But he’d never touched, not with intent. So now he did, until John parted the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt and pushed the silk back on his shoulders. Sherlock had to draw back as John pulled it free and tossed it away. And then—even better, _so much better_ —John’s hands were on him as his were on John.

Sherlock swallowed hard and nosed at John’s chin. If he could have generated proper sound, it would have been begging; as it was, he heard himself whine lightly, and with an answering moan, John turned his head, pulled Sherlock bodily into his arms, and kissed him hungrily. Sherlock threw one arm about John’s shoulder to hold himself close as he sank into John’s touch.

Without warning, John pulled away. “Come here,” he rasped, moving blindly for some goal, urging Sherlock along with him. Sherlock was so dazed he had no idea which way was up or down, only that John was leading him, for a change, and he would follow. It was only a couple of pushes along the floor and John stopped. Sherlock heard shifting denim and a thump, and then John’s hands returned. “Come _here_ , you insanely desirable creature,” John growled.

A frisson of shock combined with pleasure and desire spread through Sherlock, diffusing throughout his torso and settling deep in his gut and groin. He was so hard and aching, so _blasted hot_ he could barely tolerate it. Blindly fumbling, Sherlock followed John’s hands, which led him to crawl over John’s legs and straddle his thighs, a knee against each hip as John leaned against the wall, clasped Sherlock’s waist, and pulled him closer.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?” John’s voice had taken on the qualities of Sherlock’s discarded shirt: wet, silky, a deep jeweled tone. “ _Any idea_ ,” he repeated as his hands groped along Sherlock’s skin, “you mad, beautiful idiot. So long. So bloody long.”

Sherlock reached out to find John’s face and leaned forward to kiss him, trying to communicate what he couldn’t find words for. He had words, multitudes of words, for anything but this. Luckily, John had enough for them both, spilling them between kisses.

“I know your face… so well… can see it, see you… don’t need the light. But to touch… touch… God, to _touch_ you….”

Sherlock finally marshaled a few of his own. “Why didn’t you?” he asked, pressing his lips against the crow’s-feet at the corner of John’s eye.

John’s reply was a shocked laugh. “Why didn’t I?” He groaned when Sherlock bit his earlobe, marking his refusal to repeat himself. “Because, God, look at you. You’re bloody gorgeous, could have anyone….” He stopped for another deep, clinging kiss that demolished Sherlock. To be consumed by John would be utter bliss, Sherlock had no doubt. Then they’d never, ever be apart.

“Don’t want anyone,” Sherlock managed to get out around the fear coating the gorge in his throat. He’d never said it. Never even implied it. Now he trembled as he forced the words out. “ _Just you._ ”

“Just _me_ , oh God, Sherlock,” John swore before kissing him again, lips pulling and sucking and claiming. “I didn’t dare. Didn’t dare try, couldn’t lose you.”

Sherlock managed to slow his frantic shaking and laid his forehead against John’s, abandoning himself to float in the sauna that was their bodies so close together. “I know,” he whispered, the truth of it near strangling him.

John’s body shuddered in his arms. “You’re concussed, and God knows, surely heatsick, probably your blood sugar’s nonexistent from not eating and so you’re dizzy and caught up in adrena—”

“No, John,” Sherlock interrupted sharply, his mind crystal clear on at least this. “I know exactly what I’m doing.” He moved carefully to capture John’s lips again and moved his palm along John’s chest, down to his belly, over his belt and onto the bulge in his denim. John groaned and lifted his hips what little bit he could under Sherlock’s weight.

“You’re sure.” A last-ditch effort to assuage his conscience. Sherlock smiled. His beloved John, white knight to the last.

“I am,” Sherlock murmured against John’s lips. “I want you. And I now that I know you’re amenable, I intend to _have_ you.”

“Possessive git,” John accused affectionately with a shaky laugh, a teasing complaint of old.

“You love it,” Sherlock replied as he unbuckled John’s belt.

“Oh God, I do, I really do,” John gasped as Sherlock unfastened his denims and slid his hand inside the heavy cotton in search of even heavier, hotter flesh.

When his fingertips found only more hot, wet skin and no pants, Sherlock groaned and pressed the heel of his free hand against his own aching cock. “John, how d-daring of you,” he tried to drawl, though it came out breathless.

“Would rather the pants and not the trousers about now, considering the locale,” John ground out, breath hitching when Sherlock curled a hand around his cock and pulled it free, then unfastened his own trousers and fumbled to release his own cock so he could hold them both in his grasp.

“Ohhh bloody _hell_....” John swore under his breath when the damp skin of their cocks touched and stuck and juddered and pulled. He kept one arm curled about Sherlock’s waist, the other delved into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock could feel John’s fingers stroking and tangling and pulling to direct Sherlock toward a kiss. He went willingly, sliding one hand through the sweat on John’s belly, then trying to find a rhythm to stroke them together, finally matching the hard and fast thrusting of their tongues.

They’d both been so heated before this even began, Sherlock couldn’t conceive of how their temperatures could continue to rise. Within a bare minute, John’s skin was almost too hot to touch, Sherlock could feel the burn in the pads of his fingers, and the buzz of sensation barreled through his body, a veritable runaway lorry.

Sherlock desperately tried to ward off the erotic convulsions he could feel building, far too quickly, suppressed far too long. “John,” he pleaded.

“Fuck, yes, Sherlock,” John gasped. “Please—”

John went rigid with a grunt and low extended groan as he came; semen splattered over Sherlock’s fist as he pulled at their cocks and the volume of John’s cry grew to a roar in Sherlock’s ears and with his lungs a conflagration Sherlock hit another wall face-first—

—his orgasm seized him completely, freezing him in the moment and then shrieking and eating up his skin and hair and particle cells like wildfire crackling through his extremities, shaking him to bits and ashes and leaving him numb to collapse into John’s waiting arms and the overwhelming but comforting pitch-black.

 

==

 

He was so hot, it was hard to breathe. Sherlock groaned and raised a hand to bat at the duvet that had to be covering his face. Why else would it be so stuffy? He struggled to wake, vaguely annoyed that his brain wasn’t firing at high speed as per usual. _Hot._ With a harsh exhale, he opened his eyes, then squeezed them shut against the glaring light. Rolling his head caused a shot of pain at his temple, eliciting another groan, and now his mind started to grope for any bit of the nearest past he could remember. How disgustingly ordinary. He never had trouble remembering.

But for now: Soft bed. Cotton. Cool, with the breeze from a rotary fan whirring in the background. He was sprawled on it, and moving didn’t hurt quite like he expected, especially the knot on the side of his head he could no longer feel throbbing with his becalmed pulse. He slowly drew in a breath of the refreshing air and moved his arms, groping for purchase with fingers that felt slow to respond and drowsy.

Definitely nude, in fact, comfortably so, one leg wrapped up in a topsheet, the duvet barely holding purchase along his toes. He felt a pang of amusement, remembering how he’d shucked out of the sweat-soaked and surely ruined suit before falling onto the mattress streaked with sunbeams in the dawning summer morning. Summer, with its overly cheerful sunshine. A short nap, tedious, but required to recover optimum brain function. Open windows to relieve the stagnant air in the flat with the light breeze. Moderate traffic, light noise as the day broke. Violin on his mind, music springing to life, wanting to be played. His body’s suggestion that he waste valuable thinking time to consume food. Food. Breakfast. Kitchen. Company.

_John._

“John?”

A soft interrogatory rumble answered him immediately, and Sherlock opened his eyes to see a sleepy John peering at him. Smiling at him.

Sherlock had never been so happy to see the light of day.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Conceived to be some years post-Reichenbach. I originally set this in a more specific time, projecting a post-Mary situation some years down the road, but I decided to leave it more indeterminate. Trying to work in the details was detracting from the tone.
> 
> Happy birthday, Lizzie. Thank you, Gin, for the pokes and prods.


End file.
